


Welcome the Crash

by Oneofthepoisoned



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anxiety Disorder, Hallucinations, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach, Triggers, attempted self-harm, reference to past suicide attempt, reference to past torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneofthepoisoned/pseuds/Oneofthepoisoned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is struck with the realization that John Watson belongs to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pain is For the Mighty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline takes place about a month and a half after Sherlock's return. John never met Mary, and Sherlock never dealt with the trauma of what he went through dismantling Moriarty's network. John doesn't really know what he went through either, but because of this things start to change. They've pretty much been ignoring their feelings and memories. That's about to change. The chapters that are up are under editing, and I apologize in advance if something doesn't make sense. This disregards anything that happens in series 4.

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts  
with the mild pheasants' song ...  
but now I feel the eastern wind's blast—  
its severe weather strong.  
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!  
And I, because of my momentous wrong  
now grieve, mourn and fast.

My fault. 

Sentiment had never been Sherlock’s forte, that was a simple fact of the world. As long as Sherlock has and will live, he knows that he will never be the master of matters of the heart. It’s a pity, in all reality, because at the moment he _must_ become the master of his emotions. It’s not the first time he hasn’t been able to control sentiment overriding his body, but it is the first time that he’s been helpless from it. 

He curses himself for being so weak. He shouldn’t allow his tears to fall, and he shouldn’t allow himself to scream so loudly. 

But he can’t help it because his heart has finally been burned. 

John Watson lies dead in front of him.

***

“Come, John! I’ve never met such a man with legerity as lacking as yours!” Sherlock hurries forwards, whispering to his companion scathingly.

“Oh, shut it, you great oaf! I’m not 20 anymore. It’s not my fault you have great spindly legs.”

Sherlock scoffs, “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll lose him.” 

“Piss off,” mutters John. 

A rumble of thunder punctuates John’s vituperate, and Sherlock smiles to himself. John, however, groans exasperatedly. While Sherlock may love weather like this, John loathes it. It’s the dead of night, as well. A storm has been brewing all day, and now seems to be reaching its peak. 22.3 degrees below yesterday’s temperature (10.7) currently, and the air is crisp and electrically sparked. 

Danger in the atmosphere as well as on the ground. Sherlock _loves_ it. 

“How long?” whispers John, tugging Sherlock from his thoughts. 

“A minute and a half,” replies Sherlock. They’ll reach Lundy Webster’s hideout soon enough. Sherlock can taste the victory already. The thrill of the chase, blood boiling, adrenaline pumping – how delicious. 

This case hasn’t been an easy one. Sherlock had put the case together quickly, but the hunt for the ever elusive professor was more difficult than anticipated. The so called _loving_ professor was, in actuality, very brutal. A serial rapist with a gruesome habit of draining their blood after cutting their throats. The press dubbed him Dracula after they found out that bit. Sherlock thinks that’s possibly the worst name those insipid idiots have come up with – Lundy doesn’t even drink the blood.

John and Sherlock have been stalking the man in the shadows for the past half hour, weaving quietly through East London Shipyard. They’ve been careful not to let Lundy know that they’ve been on his trail, but Sherlock isn’t so sure that Lundy doesn’t know. There was a moment where Lundy hesitated in his movements when John was just a little too loud at insulting Sherlock. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, smiling wickedly. It won’t matter anyway, Lundy has already left Sherlock more than enough information to take him down in his trial.

Sherlock just has to catch him. 

Another rumble of thunder pierces the night. Ah, it’s a welcome relief from the rare fair week of weather that London’s received. 

Sherlock curses as he sees Lundy slip inside a large warehouse. He’s out of sight, now, but if Sherlock can get John to hurry up and cover his flank then maybe – 

“Sherlock!” Sherlock turns his head, just in time to see John pull his Browning out, ready to aim and fire if necessary. An overreaction, of course. 

“Yes, John. I know.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at John. A blunder, but not in totality. 

“Cover me, I’m going to slip through.” He starts forwards, and John comes to his side, putting a hand on his arm, stopping him. 

“Not a good idea. He could have a weapon. This whole thing could be a trap,” reprimands John. 

How _dull_. 

Sherlock already considered all these possibilities, but he already knows that Lundy works alone. However, John is correct about the chance that this is trap, but Sherlock thinks that he would have spotted a difference in behavior pattern from Lundy if that was the case. Sherlock shrugs John’s arm off of him, “Please, John. I’ll be fine. Just come through he – _oof!_ ” 

Sherlock cries out as a swift punch to the gut takes him off guard. He quickly analyses the situation, and regains his posture, rallying for a swift punch to the face from Lundy. He takes the punch and ducks away from the next one, throwing his left arm out straight into Lundy’s solar plexus. 

Lundy cries out in pain, and Sherlock stands straight – kicking out his right leg into Lundy’s knee and boxing his ears in the same motion. Lundy lunges forwards with an enraged, pained expression. He leaps at Sherlock’s neck, but the weather is on the detective’s side, and a flash of lightning skews Lundy’s perception. Sherlock swipes again with incredible precision into Lundy’s already cracked rib, effectively rendering the man useless in combat. 

In the second that it takes Lundy to fall, Sherlock cuffs him. 

He laughs triumphantly, whipping out his cell and dialing Lestrade with trained efficiency. It turns out that John was right – Lundy knew they were tailing him, and he only made it look like he went inside of the warehouse. In actuality, Lundy hid in the corner of a storage unit, perfectly concealed by the shadows. As soon as Sherlock got close enough; Lundy struck. 

A grunt of pain turns Sherlock attention to the fact that John is no longer by his side. Sherlock had thought that John didn’t intervene once he saw what an easy fight it was, but he was wrong. John cries out again, but Sherlock can’t see from where. 

“John!” He yells out into the darkness, swearing when John doesn’t answer him. 

Two beats pass. 

“Sherlock!” Oh, there it is. Sherlock runs towards John’s cry, and his stomach drops when he catches sight of his companion. He’s in a scuffle with a man that Sherlock doesn’t know (How? Who?) He rushes to John, screaming out when he sees that the man he’s fighting has a knife. 

John is fighting for his life, and Sherlock lunges forwards, trying to wrap his arm around the man’s neck and pull him _away_. 

But John’s scream tells Sherlock that he was too late. 

The man’s arm plunges into John’s stomach, and Sherlock watches with a horrified expression as John falls. 

_Breathe._

“John!” Sherlock stumbles towards his fallen friend, collapsing to his knees, analyzing the extent of the injury. John’s cloudy, unfocused eyes meet Sherlock’s and the detective holds back a cry. Blood seeps from John’s wound, quickly soaking through his shirt and dripping onto the ground. 

_Breathe. This isn’t Prague. This – This isn’t Prague. John is okay. He’ll be fine._

_Breathe._

Sherlock shudders. Tearing John’s shirt away and exposing his flesh. 

Oh, God. 

The wound is deep and scathing. 

“Sher’l’. I’m – It hurts.” John wriggles on the ground, his hands cupping at the gaping hole. 

“John . . . K-keep breathing. Lestrade will be here soon.” Sherlock whispers this in a fevered rush, taking the time to ball up John’s shirt and press it firmly onto John’s stomach. 

John shivers, and Sherlock moans when he realizes that John is starting to go into shock.

 _Breathe. Not Prague. Keep John alive. Breathe. Keep John alive._

“Sher’l. I think – I think that I’m hurt.” John’s eyes flutter shut and his words slur.

“Yes, I can see that you blathering idiot. Just – just keep yourself alive. Don’t go to sleep. Don’t you dare or I – I’ll not sleep for a month!” It’s stupid, Sherlock know, but John hates when Sherlock doesn’t sleep. 

“So tetchy,” mutters John, his head slumping to the concrete. 

“NO! Wake up, you fool!” Sherlock slaps him, but it’s no use – John’s unconscious.

_Breathe. Not Prague. Check pulse. Keep pressure. Not Prague. Breathe. John._

_John._

_John._

Sherlock shakes his head and growls, cupping John’s neck. His pulse is weak and thready, and far too much blood surrounds him. At least a pint. 

_Breathe._

But Sherlock is unequipped for an injury of this magnitude. All he can do is keep pressure and watch John’s pulse.

Breathe. Prague. John. Breathe. Stay alive. John. Prague. 

“SHUT UP!” Memories of his torture assault his brain, and Sherlock struggles to regain control from the onslaught. There’s so much blood. 

John’s pulse flutters. 

“John?” Tears fill Sherlock’s eyes. 

John is swallow and pale – unreachable and nonresponsive. 

“JOHN!” Sherlock presses harder into John’s neck, desperately trying to feel John’s pulse but no beat comes. 

The tears fall. 

Sherlock leans forwards, staunching his sobs and beginning the resuscitation process. 

_Press firmly down, 100 bpm._

_Prague. Breathe. Get John. Stay alive._

“NO, SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Sherlock pushes harder onto John’s chest. His breath is too heavy, and Sherlock knows he’s going into shock. Memories of Prague assault him again, and Sherlock’s movements falter. He’s losing himself.

He must regain control. 

John is dead, and Sherlock will not go into shock. 

Sherlock tips John’s head up and breathes into him. 

More pumping and still nothing. 

More breaths. 

More pumping. Sherlock winces when he feels John’s rib crack. He doesn’t stop.

Nothing. 

Sherlock chokes back vomit, and a broken sound falls from his lips. “D-don’t you leave me, John Watson. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. I need you.” 

Sherlock realizes dully that he’s no longer pumping. 

The world is cold, but somehow John remains warm.

He won’t stay that way for long. 

“Please. One miracle for me, John. Please.” It’s only a whisper, but Sherlock head bows, and he reaches for John’s heart. 

“ _Please_ ,” mutters Sherlock.

John comes to life under his hand. It isn’t as it is in the movies, but John’s breathing resumes, and his chest rises from the shock of the relief of breath. 

Sherlock sobs, falling onto John’s chest. He continues to put pressure on John’s wound, and soon the police arrive. 

He hears Lestrade yell for an ambulance and is vaguely aware of someone pulling him away from John, but the memories have finally hit Sherlock, and he can’t fight them off any longer. 

Sherlock shuts down, too ensconced in his own mind to acknowledge reality. 

Eventually, paramedics are forced to sedate Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many taken works in this story, and I intend to give full credit to those artists. 
> 
> The poem featured in this chapter is written by MICHEAL R. BURCH - "How Long the Night" - - However, it should be said that I've featured one change. The original poem contains the words, "Northern Wind's Blast." But for the purpose of this story, I've changed it to "Eastern".


	2. This is Cold; I Can't Help

I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!  
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;  
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,  
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,  
Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:  
And often in my solitude I sigh  
That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,  
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)  
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone  
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,  
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,  
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,  
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

\- - - - 

When Sherlock first met John, the man stood out to him like a fish stood out in the ocean. He was a common, uninteresting person – least of all fascinating enough to warrant Sherlock’s attention. However, it was even with that first conversation that Sherlock could tell John was a fighter.

Something that he’s grateful for, now. 

He’d offered his flat with a whirlwind of common deductions, not altogether sure if John would accept. The man seemed too stunned to give him an answer just right then, so Sherlock was out of the lab before he confused John any further. He shouted out the address and his name and was gone. 

The following day he’d waited outside 221B with a distinct air of boredom. He’d stood in the same spot many different times, wasting his time on many different men. About eighty-three percent of the time they failed to show, too put-off by Sherlock’s presence, and the rest of the twenty-seven only lasted a week in the flat.  
He was about to give up on John ever showing when, finally, a cab pulled up and out popped John Watson. 

That was the first time John stood out to him. 

From that moment on, Sherlock got to know John in the best of ways. There wasn’t an undiffused tension between them like so many of the others that Sherlock had roomed with. Previous tenants had a hard time disguising the loathing feeling they had for Sherlock. 

With John, it was different. The man seemed fascinated by Sherlock, (hardly the first time) but still, there came no moment where John was truly disgusted by Sherlock. 

Years passed as they became closer and closer, and it was as if John consumed his life. Deductions continuously had John’s name in them, (woman wearing pink, outspoken. John hates pink) when he wrote the list for shopping, he thought of John (Litchi? No, John hates litchi). It was confusing and unsettling at first, for Sherlock wasn’t used to having another person to worry about on cases and in daily life. 

John made him sleep, eat, shower, and shop. Mundane things that Sherlock never even thought of doing before. Over time, Sherlock got used to having John’s constant presence – dare he even day, _liked_ it. 

And then Sherlock had to go and ruin everything. 

Mycroft and Sherlock had planned every single little detail of his plan to thwart Moriarty, but of course, the Spider had gotten the best of them in the end. The one outcome that Mycroft had predicted that Sherlock didn’t think true – Moriarty killing himself. His insanity ran over his rational mind, and he gave himself over to his cause to destroy Sherlock’s life. The whole of Britain was turned on Sherlock (expected) and there was only one outcome to accommodate the situation Sherlock was trapped in. 

He was _forced_ to play his hand. 

There was only one thing he could do in order to save his friends (friends? Did he even have friends?).

He could do only one thing that would allow him to save John, and no matter how many therapists told him otherwise – John Watson _was_ Sherlock’s friend. 

The jump was the easy part; it was hearing John shriek for him that almost made him lose his resolve. 

Over the next two years, Sherlock began to fall apart. 

John had changed him too much; Sherlock wasn’t used to being on the run. He’d fallen out of his old habits – no longer was he able to go two and a half weeks without food, no longer was he able to go fifty-five hours without sleep. John had crushed his bad habits and formed his own healthy customs. Being on the run was crushing Sherlock. It took him an entire six months to shut off all feelings of his old life. He was able to simply close his palace, able to forget London, able to forget every emotion that called him back home. 

The one thing he never forgot was John. Sherlock never allowed John to slip out of his mind, it was the only thing keeping Sherlock from staying on the mission. Of course, Sherlock was forced to store away many of the memories associated with John, but he never let John get away from him. 

The only time Sherlock was truly allowed to think of John was when he was being tortured. During those weeks, even months, Sherlock allowed himself to think of nothing but London. He thought of old cases while a captor was running a burning-hot blade into his skin. He thought of John’s scolding while he was being whipped to pieces. He thought of takeout dinners and awful television when he was drugged past the point of no return. 

He’d thought of nothing but John when he was almost certain he was going to perish at the hands of his mission (no less than a total of seven times).

Prague still gave him nightmares. 

All in all, he’d only taken a year and five months to dismantle Moriarty’s web, but it was still too long. Every moment spent away from London made him _sick_.

He’d sacrificed his body, (‘Your body, Sherlock. Not transport.’) his mind, (‘Brilliant, Sherlock. Truly extraordinary.’) and even his heart (‘You’d be lost without me.’). 

It’s only been two months since he’s been back, and John still has yet to learn of the extent Sherlock went through. Sherlock’s hid the worst of the nightmares, and he’s taken careful precautions to hide his body from John’s eyes. Sherlock knows John’s ignorance won’t last much longer. Now that John has finally forgiven him, he’s going to want answers. 

After all, he did offer to tell John everything.

* * * 

When Sherlock was finally allowed to come back to London, it was in the nick of time.

He’d been watching John from a distance for some while – he was in no condition to leave Mycroft’s safehouse, and contact John himself. He loathe admit it, but Mycroft had infiltrated a Russian mob that had kidnapped Sherlock and held him for two weeks and saved him. It was in Kazan where his brother told him his mission was over. Sherlock had about wept from sheer joy – in fact, if memory serves him right, Sherlock did weep. Although that was more out of pain than out of rejoice.

When Sherlock was finally well enough to leave the compound, the first thing he did was go to John. Through the week Sherlock had been watching him, he could tell that John was in a poor state. Depression had taken over his life – John had become robotic and lifeless. His entire body screamed misery. There was no woman in John’s life that he’d sought comfort with, no running off to beg Mycroft for his old military position back, there was simply nothing. It stunned Sherlock to see how poorly John had moved on with his life.

Sherlock had taken the precaution of having Mycroft’s men drop him off over a block away from John’s flat. He’d walked the short distance instead, not wanting to give John a reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. The short walk breathed a new life into Sherlock, and he finally felt at home after being away for so long.

The flat is only a second away now, and Sherlock has his infiltration plan at the ready. It’s simple, really. Sherlock will sneak in through the back door, careful not to make a sound. Then he’ll simply walk up from behind John and plop himself on the couch.

Yes, he thinks. John will find that funny. Shocking, but funny. 

But why does he feel so sick? Nervousness is most likely. 

Sherlock puts his emotions aside and takes action. Picking the lock on the back door is surprisingly easy; he would have thought that John would have taken more precautions for his safety. Sherlock takes a deep breath. He can’t wait to see John, the _real_ John. There have been many a time, where in moments of weakness while being tortured, that Sherlock has hallucinated him. 

He slips into the living room, ever so careful to be quiet. The drabble of TV fills the room, and Sherlock halts. 

He can’t do it. John will be furious with him. John will never want to see him again. 

He should slip out of John’s flat. He should go, his own feelings be damned. 

“I know you’re there,” says John suddenly. Sherlock flinches. 

“John?” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, and he coughs to steady it. He’s waited so long, so long just to see John’s face. 

“I thought you’d be gone, I was doing so well.” 

“John? I don’t understand.”

John turns around, and his eyes widen in surprise, but it’s quickly wiped off by a look of blankness. 

Sherlock is stunned, John looks _awful_. But there are no words, for the blanket of joy that folds onto him. _John is beautiful._

He raises his eyebrows, “Come on, then. Tell me how miserable I am. Tell me how I need to move on because he’s not really alive. Tell me how much I want to die. You’ve said it all before, and I don’t want to hear it.” 

“John,” says Sherlock. He doesn’t understand, his dead best friend of two years is standing in front of him, and yet he’s not surprised? 

“What?” spits John angrily. “Spit it out so you can leave.” There are tears in his eyes, but instead of holding them back, John lets them fall. 

Oh. 

John doesn’t think he’s real. Mycroft had told him of John’s depression, but Sherlock hadn’t thought it this bad. Hallucinations are a sign of drug abuse, but a quick scan over shows that no, John hasn’t even touched drugs. At least not for the last few months. 

Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away from John. How long it’s been since he’s been able to look at his best friend. Sherlock takes a few steps forwards right until he’s standing directly in front of the chair that John is sitting in. 

John scoffs, “You didn’t put much effort into it this time. But I have to say it’s a better improvement then your head being cracked open and blood all over your coat. You look like shit.” He stares at Sherlock angrily, but there’s desperation in his eyes. How long had John been this way? How much does Sherlock not know?

“I’m so glad to see you. This is real.” It’s the only thing Sherlock can manage to say. Perhaps not the most eloquent of words. 

John just rolls his eyes, “There’s no reasons to change gears anymore. You’re the one who convinced me that he was actually dead. Why switch now?” 

Pain rackets through Sherlock’s chest, and he knows he must do more, “John. Look at me. You said I didn’t look like him. You’re right, it’s because I’m not who I used to be. I’ve lost twenty pounds, my hair has been shaved and dyed more times than I can count and my body is no longer the man’s you once knew. But I assure you, this is _real_. I’ve spent the last two years dismantling Moriarty’s criminal empire. I wanted to come back, John. I couldn’t, not until he was gone and you were safe.” 

“I don’t believe you.” John narrows his eyes. 

“What can I do?” Sherlock squeezes John’s hand. He’s determined, now. An aching in his throat has started, Sherlock knows that’s often accompanied by tears. Why didn’t Mycroft tell Sherlock how bad it really was?

“I’ll call Greg. If he can see you then I’ll know you’re real.” 

Sherlock swallows, “I can’t do that. Not yet. Mycroft still has to clear paperwork before anyone can know I’m alive. Clear my name, my reputation. Only you can know, John.”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true.”

“Fine,” spits John. “Then I want you to punch me. I want you to do something you’ve never done before.”

“Oh, John,” whispers Sherlock. “Don’t make me do that. I haven’t seen you in so long. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do it, that’s the only way I’ll know for sure.” 

“What if I . . . what if I kissed you, John?” Sherlock would much rather go through the embarrassment of kissing John rather them hurting him. For God’s sake, he’s had nightmares about his own kidnappers finding John and harming him. 

John just shakes his head, “No, you’ve done that before.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. The aching is tenfold now. 

Sherlock makes up his mind. John must realize that he is real. Sherlock is not out to hurt John. A simple punch in the face is all it is. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

John’s eyes are dull, “Okay.” 

Sherlock’s resolve hardens, “Stand up.”

John stands. 

“Are you ready?” asks Sherlock. _He can do this. He must._

John nods, and that’s the only encouragement Sherlock needs. He pulls his fist back and punches, _hard_. John collapses on the floor, falling onto his knees and catching his fall with his hands. 

“Do you believe me now? It’ll be a week before I can reveal myself to anyone but you, and I’d really hate to go so long without my blogger. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this. You must hate me by now, but I’ll tell you everything you want to know, John. I’ll tell you how I did it, what I went through, anything, John. Just please, be my companion again. I’ll – ” Sherlock is abruptly cut off when John’s hand cups at his ankle. Sherlock knows he was ranting, but how could he not? He doesn’t know whether or not John will believe him. 

Sherlock swallows, awaiting his friend’s judgment. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” whispers John still sitting on the ground. The vitriol in his voice hardly surprises Sherlock, but it lacks a certain truth. Rationally, Sherlock knows John won’t murder him, but still . . . how angry is he?

“So you believe me?” 

“You bloody wanker.” John leaps to his feet, and Sherlock moves to take a step back but before he can, John is on him. Rather than the punch Sherlock was expecting, John hugs him. His grip is tight, constricting. Too tight. 

Sherlock struggles to breathe. He reminds himself that this is _John_. Not one of Moriarty’s men. The pain in his back was not caused by John. John is only exacerbating it. 

This is home. 

John pulls back, tears flowing heavily now. “I missed you so much, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock swallows, “As did I. I hope you can forgive me for my transgressions. I’ll explain it all to you - ” Sherlock is cut off by another body crushing hug. 

“Of course, I'll forgive you. You’re my best friend.”

* * * 

In a different world, John would have tackled him. Punched him till he bled then gone home to his tender, loving girlfriend. But in this world he didn’t – and because of that, everything was fine.

Sherlock can be grateful for that because at the moment he’s not so sure of how fine everything is going to be after tonight. He’s covered in John’s blood, sticky and gross. People are staring at him, nurses have offered him clean clothes, doctors have asked if he’s alright – he tells them all to piss off. 

No, he’s not alright. His best friend could very well be dying in a room that Sherlock can’t reach him. 

He barely even remembers the ride to A&E, but that hardly matters now because a doctor is calling John’s name. 

“John Watson?” the man asks tentatively. Sherlock’s eyes snap up. 

_Mid-forties. Two dogs at home. Unhealthy relationship with wife, she’s much to controlling. Nervous._

“What? What is it? Why are you nervous?” asks Sherlock quickly, striding up to meet the man. 

The doctor looks surprised for a moment, but then regains his composure, “You’re his husband, correct?” 

“Yes, yes. When can I see him?” Trivial details. 

“Right this way, sir. We’ve put him in a coma for the time being to let his body heal. He’ll remain in that state for the next few days, and then we’ll deem if he’s ready to be taken out or not.” 

_A coma?_

“Shouldn’t you have consulted me first? I’m his next of kin, a coma is no trivial matter.” 

“We had the papers for a go ahead from his brother-in-law. He gave us quite a shock, bursting into the O.R washroom like that. Normally, we wouldn’t follow through with such actions but . . . we get the sense your brother is quite an important man.” 

“You’d be right about that.” Sherlock doesn't want to talk to the doctor any longer, the man only serves to remind him of his time in Germany.

The doctor leads him down a hallway alight with beeping and moaning, “He’s right through here. He’ll spend the night in recovery and then we’ll get him a more permanent room.” 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. He hasn’t seen John for almost 13 hours. 

_Oh, God_. 

He stumbles forwards, “John?” he whispers. Sherlock knows logically he won’t receive an answer. It doesn’t matter. 

He sits in a chair placed by John’s bedside. Staring, staring at John’s blank, unblinking face. 

Sherlock thinks of what went wrong. He should have been quicker, safer, more reliable. 

John didn’t deserve the fall for Sherlock’s mistake. 

Sherlock wants – no, needs John to wake up. He needs John to open his eyes and tell Sherlock that everything is fine, that Sherlock’s fear is a product of delusion. That Sherlock is the one really in a coma and that this is all some demented drug induced dream. 

_From the Greek word “koma,” meaning deep sleep. A state of extreme unresponsiveness in which individuals exhibit no voluntary movement or behavior._

His mind is a whir of information, providing him with answers Sherlock doesn’t want to hear. 

He tries to distract himself by focusing on John. 

On his colors.

Sherlock focuses on how John’s sandy brown hair is now wrapped in disgustingly blinding white bandages, how his calloused, worn hands are spattered with beautiful cherry red scratches. 

He focuses on his touch. 

Sherlock now knows the feel of John’s blood dripping through his fingers, and he knows what the crack of John’s bones under his palms sounds like – Sherlock even knows what John’s lips feel like. 

He knows the color of John’s blood down to a shade.

Sherlock tugs at his black curls, using pain to distract himself from his distraction. Sherlock realizes he’s slipping. 

He breathes in again. This is not a dream, he thinks. You are _fine_. You are _safe_. 

_Furthermore, in a deep coma, even painful stimuli (actions which, when performed on a healthy individual, result in reactions) are unable to affect any response, and normal reflexes may be lost._

Sherlock can feel his lips moving steadily, but as he can’t hear the sound of his own voice, he can’t muster up enough energy to quite care. 

He can, however, hear the sound of someone else talking to him – trying to get his attention (Lestrade?). But as that voice is not John’s, Sherlock simply doesn’t care to listen. 

Sherlock’s brain screams at him. 

John’s does not.

_Consciousness is defined by two fundamental elements: awareness and arousal._

Sherlock wants John to wake up. He wants his friend to save him. 

_A coma is the result of something that interferes with the functioning of the cerebral cortex and/or the functioning of the structures which make up the RAS. Categorize - consider the anatomic and the metabolic causes of coma. Anatomic causes of coma are those conditions that disrupt the normal physical architecture of the brain structures responsible for consciousness, either at the level of the cerebal cortex or the brainstem, while metabolic causes of coma consist of those conditions that change the chemical environment of the brain, thereby adversely affecting function._

Wake up, John!

_There are many metabolic causes of coma, including:_

“Sherlock, are you hearing me?” Lestrade has resorted to touching now, something he rarely does. His hand is heavy on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock hates it, the last thing he needs right now is to be touched. He shrugs Greg’s hand off quickly, struggling to regain his breath. He can’t breathe. Why can’t he bloody breathe?

_A decrease in the delivery to the brain of substances necessary for appropriate brain functioning, such as –_

“Shut up!” yells Sherlock. It’s too much. The voice is too loud, too responsive. He doesn’t want answers, he wants silence. He wants safety. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice is speaking now. Sherlock didn’t notice his brother’s entrance. 

Lestrade grips his shoulder tighter, pulling him slightly away from John’s bedside. Immediately, Sherlock notices that Lestrade’s hands are shaking. Wait – no – Sherlock is the one who’s shaking. He growls something to Lestrade (Piss off!) and ties his hands in John’s bedsheets, refusing to be pulled away from John. 

_Oxygen._

_Glucose._

_Sodium._

Treat him. 

Fix him. 

Realistically, Sherlock knows that his begging is useless. John isn’t just in any coma, he’s in a medically-induced coma after complications with his surgery. Still, it’s too real for Sherlock – there’s a chance that John won’t wake up. There’s a chance that John will wake up but never be the same. There’s a chance that John will wake up and be perfectly normal, but hate Sherlock for the things he’s done to him. 

Sherlock wouldn’t blame him. 

He hears Mycroft call the doctors. To hell with Mycroft, his brother can rot in hell for all he cares. 

“Sherlock, you need to calm down, mate,” says Lestrade worriedly. “You’re shaking.” 

Someone is behind him, in front of him, next to him. They’re talking – distracting him. Sherlock looks up, prepared to launch a volley of deductions to scare off the Prime Minister himself. 

Instead, his eyes meet Mycroft’s. 

Sherlock sees that Mycroft recently came from a meeting with an uncover spy posing as a Russian diplomat (strong smell of vodka, wearing suit only worn when not afraid of getting dirty). A meeting where a particular set of bodily damaging skills were utilized to the said diplomat (blood flecks on left wrist). He sees that Mycroft’s lips move but can’t hear the words (why?). He sees that Mycroft finally gave into the temptation to break his diet and frequented his favorite pastry store (crumbs on collar). 

Russia. It all makes sense now; John’s been hurt by Sherlock’s captors. They’ve gotten him. Sherlock isn’t safe, he must get out of here. 

He must catch his breath.

He’s slipping.

There’s a peculiar look on Mycroft’s face (worry? Panic?) and when his brother speaks, Sherlock listens. His brother comes forwards, a calm look in his eyes, “You’re okay, Sherlock. John Watson will be perfectly fine. You are in London. Remember, Sherlock, and catch your breath.” 

London? 

“Yes, brother. You’re suffering a panic attack. You need to remember, consult the palace.” 

But the palace has been shut down. He can only consult John, and John is dead. 

Not dead – in a coma. _They’ve got him, Sherlock. You **failed**_.

“Oh, Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me? You aren’t well, why did you close your mind?” Mycroft’s voice is soothing, his eyes are pitying. _A trick_.

Lestrade speaks, “He’s going pale, Mycroft. Do something! What’s wrong with him?”

_Because of their low incidence of side effects and potential for prompt reversal of coma in certain conditions, glucose, the B-vitamin thiamine, and Narcan (to counteract any narcotic-type drugs) are routinely given._

Suddenly Sherlock world shifts, a blurry filter flashing through his eyes, disappearing just as fast as it came. 

He panics. 

_They’ve drugged you! They want to take you away from John._

Mycroft shifts forwards, a look of fear flashing in his features, “Sit down, Sherlock.” 

They want to control him; he just knows it. They’re going to torture him. They’re going to hurt John. 

He slips backward, stumbling slightly towards his captor (Lestrade?) as the blurry filter announces itself once more into his vision, “Kill me. Not him. Never him.” The words slur in his tongue. 

Sherlock was to not leave John’s side for one minute, and now they’ve taken that liberty away from him. He thought he was free. 

Somebody shouts out into the hall, words that Sherlock can’t hear. 

A team of doctors rushes in, and Sherlock cries out, eyes turning towards John, thinking that something must have happened when Sherlock turned his eyes off him. But no, the doctors rush towards Sherlock, not John. 

They always send the doctors when they’ve pushed Sherlock too far. They try to save Sherlock from his wounds before he can die. 

Maybe he wants to die. 

There’s a loud sort of screech in his brain and Sherlock grabs his head, screaming out in pain. 

_It’s over_.

The doctors yell a code and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem featured in this chapter is the first 4 stanzas of --- I Do Not Love Thee! By CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON. 
> 
> The Coma Text featured in this story has been taken from http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/coma


	3. Utter Fools Have Only Their Hearts' to Blame

Music I heard with you was more than music,  
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;  
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;  
All that was once so beautiful is dead. 

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,  
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.  
These things do not remember you, belovèd,  
And yet your touch upon them will not pass. 

For it was in my heart you moved among them,  
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;  
And in my heart they will remember always,—  
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

\- - - - 

The first time John wakes up, someone is screaming. He knows the voice well, and he can focus on the panic all too clearly. He wants to help the voice, he wants to tell the voice too quiet, that the voice is safe.

But he can’t move, because if he does, he will fall. 

The ground beneath him is shattered glass, and John doesn’t know how it stays aloft. If the glass shatters he will fall into a dark void. 

He’s never been more scared in his life. 

Suddenly the voice cries out, more in pain than in panic. John jolts, and it hurts. He’s a doctor, and he should help. The voice wants him; he just knows it. He knows that the voice belongs to someone he loves. 

He realizes the voice belongs to Sherlock. 

John tries to yell, tries to do anything to help him, but he can’t. His body is not his own, and his mind has him trapped. 

The screaming stops, and the glass breaks. 

_***_  
The next time John wakes up, someone is talking to him, and nobody is screaming. He doesn’t know if he’s really awake, but he feels aware, and that’s enough. 

The smell of sweet summer fills John’s senses, and he opens his eyes and sees he’s in a meadow in Sussex. The air is sweet and comforting, and he doesn’t feel so scared. 

“The doctors said you might be able to hear me, so I’m going to make a go of this.” 

The voice is that of Greg’s, and John smiles. The grass tickles his bare feet, and he giggles like a child. 

Greg is standing next to him, dressed in clothes John had never seen before. Greg looks at him and points to a figure in the distance - _Sherlock_. John wonders why Sherlock isn’t with him now; John misses him. 

John frowns, joyous mood dampened at the knowledge that Sherlock isn’t with him. 

“They said I’m supposed to talk to you like nothing is wrong, just like a normal conversation. I won’t pretend like nothing’s wrong, mate. But, blimey, there’s no need to mope about. Once you wake up, Sherlock will be back too normal.”

Greg sounds so sure, but John isn’t.

Beside him, Greg speaks again, “Uh, well if you can hear me then I can assume you heard Sherlock yesterday. It was truly awful to watch him go through that. I – I don’t know what he went through while he was _gone_. But, uh, well – I don’t think it was good. I guess seeing you like this freaked him out. Mycroft tried to calm him down – telling him he was in London and that he was safe and whatnot. It didn’t work.” 

John listens intently, careful to absorb every word. Sherlock worries him. 

“The doctors came into the room, and he went wonky. Mycroft yelled at them to back away, but by then Sherlock was already unconscious. They said it was a severe panic attack linked to extreme trauma; Sherlock couldn’t help it. Something triggered him.” 

Extreme trauma? John knows that Sherlock said he went through a lot while he was gone. John hadn’t bothered to ask. “Sherlock is my friend, Greg. When he comes to me, I’ll help him because I’m his. He’s not mine, but sometimes he looks at me like he is, and that’s enough.” John twists his feet into the long grass and sucks in a fresh, warm breath. John thinks about why he hasn’t been to Sussex before – it’s lovely, lovelier than any other place John has been before. 

Greg bends down to pluck a daisy from the ground. He glances at John with a melancholy look, “You know, I don’t really know what the deal is between you two, but you’re a right pair for each other.” 

“He’s everything to me now, Greg. I won’t live without him,” John turns, voice hardening. “Why isn’t he with me? I miss him. He’s so far away.” John points to Sherlock sitting in the distance. The dark-haired man sits on the ground, coat spread around him like a veil of fairy mushrooms. His arms move back and forth through the flowers, doing what, John doesn’t know. 

“Sherlock, come back!” yells John into the air. Greg doesn’t flinch, but watches carefully. Sherlock turns his head and waves to John, and he wants nothing more than to run to Sherlock, but he knows he can’t. “Silly man,” mutters John. 

Greg begins to speak again, worry in his tone, “He was muttering for so long, it scared me right down to my bones. He kept on rambling about the coma and how afraid he was of losing you. I’m not really sure if he realized he was doing it – he was so pale, John, and he shook, too. When he fell, his shirt rode up, and I swear I saw _huge_ scars on his back. Mycroft screamed at the doctors to leave him alone and then took him away.” 

“He told me he would be back for me. Whatever the hell that means,” Greg takes a breath, eyes roaming to the sky. 

“My Sherlock having scars like that? I want him here with me, Greg. I’m his doctor, I’ll fix him.” John doesn’t know how to express this thought clearly enough to Greg. All the inspector seems to be doing is staring off into the distance. John is annoyed; he wants answers. 

“Speaking of his brother, Mycroft is…I don’t know how to explain it, mate. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of run-ins with him, but he’s so _intense_. I thought it wasn’t possible for someone to be even worse than Sherlock. He’s refined, too. He has this air about him, well I’m sure you know what it’s like. I can tell he’s a right prat when he wants to be, but I bet if he met the right person, he’d melt into a somewhat normal human being.” Greg laughs, “I wonder if he ever will.”

“I don’t care about Mycroft, Greg. I want Sherlock.” In the meadow, the wind picks up. 

Lestrade doesn’t hear him, “I’d like to know him a little better . . . I’ve only met him a couple times, and it seems like it’s always when Sherlock is hurting.” 

John frowns, “I don’t care,” he mutters petulantly. 

Greg speaks, “Well, I’m off and out. There’s a barmy load of paperwork at the station with my name written all over it. I’ll be back when you wake up.” 

John leaps forwards, but suddenly his grey-haired friend is in the distance, too far away for John to reach. He waves with a smile on his face.

“No!” yells John. “Tell me more, I want more!” 

“Bye, John. See you in about, what? Two days? Yeah, that sounds about right. Bye, old chap!”

John sniffles as Greg disappears. 

The meadow darkens, and John sleeps again.

***

The third time John wakes up he’s in a dark castle. It isn’t scary, per say. But he doesn’t understand where he is or why it’s so dark.

Mycroft is here with him, sitting a throne that John failed to notice before. He stares down at John with an indignant expression on his face, “So it seems that Sherlock will make a full recovery in four hours. No doubt he’ll rush right back into this room until you wake up. It seems that my brother is a mess without you. You’ve had a profound effect on him, Doctor Watson.” 

John is afraid now, there’s a buzzing in the walls and he doesn’t know what it is, “I don’t know where I am, won’t you help me, Mycroft?” John doesn’t think he’s ever asked Mycroft for help before, but right now, John is too confused to let pride cloud his judgment. The castle is steadily going darker, and the buzzing is getting louder. 

Mycroft simply stares, “I saw you at the crime scene. I watched on cameras, as I didn’t have enough time to get there in person. You were dead, Watson, and Sherlock was…for lack of a better word, _insane_. He did everything to restart your heart – which he did well in doing. He broke a few of your ribs in the process, but I’m sure you’ll hold no grudges over this small hiccup.” 

He’s right, John won’t.

He thinks of how much of a pleasure it would be to be destroyed by someone he loves. 

“I’m not much to him, Mycroft. But he’s everything to me. Now, I’d like to get out of here, but I’m not sure how. Will you please help me?” John looks around the castle that he’s in. The air is stale and uncomfortable. And the walls are made of John knows is impenetrable stone.

“I’ll see you soon, John. You are to be awakened very soon. I don’t pity the pain you’ll have to go through.” 

John frowns, “Help me!” That’s all he wants. 

John turns around when a blast of air hits his back, and suddenly Mycroft is at eye level with him. There’s pain in his voice, “I wish I could help you. You are important to my brother, more important than he realizes. When you wake up, I want you to help him. He’s had things done to him that he doesn’t remember, and it will be tough for him to open his memory. You are the only one who can save him, John. And for that, I can call you family.” 

“Family?” asks John timidly. Mycroft Holmes considers him family?

“I want to understand what you’re thinking.” Suddenly, Mycroft leans forward and tilts John’s head down and softly meets his lips with John’s hair. “I do hope Sherlock will come to his senses soon.”

John opens his eyes (which he didn’t know were closed) and find himself once again in the meadow in Sussex.

He smiles, tears brimming in his eyes yet again. Mycroft is already gone but John can’t help but say, “Thank you for helping me.”

* * * 

This time when John wakes up, the entire world is fuzzy. He can hardly feel his body except a dull throbbing pain in his stomach. He can hear Sherlock talking to him, and John would like to respond, but as of yet, he can’t move his mouth.

He settles for opening his eyes. 

Sherlock fidgets, “Oh good, you’re finally awake.” Sherlock’s voice sounds tired and rough, nothing like the clear baritone sound that it usually is. 

John latches onto Sherlock’s voice. The world around him is blurry and unfocused, but John refuses to close his eyes. He stares at what he knows to be Sherlock, and as his vision gradually comes into focus, John begins to see the detective. 

The man, normally so posh and grand, has been reduced to a quivering drugged up looking mess. Sherlock’s hair had been let out and un-brushed – resulting in rather unfavorable curls to run wild over his face. His eyes are a stormy grey, let out more by the red puffiness around his eyelids. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.  
“H’ve ‘ou b’n cr’in?” The words don’t come out in the way John wants them too, but Sherlock seems to understand nonetheless. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Don’t ask stupid questions, John. You may be waking up after a coma, but surely you have more sense than that.”

“An’sr me,” John says, frowning. The doctors hadn’t yet come in to tell John the details of his condition, but right now, the only thing John is concerned about is Sherlock. 

Sherlock meets his eyes with a stone cold expression, “You’re going to have minor effects of aphasia for at least another two hours. Might as well not use your voice until it wears off.”

 _Is he angry?_ John doesn’t understand why Sherlock is acting so distant towards him, but before he can ask, a man in a white coat walks in. John doesn’t have to have Sherlock’s deductive reasoning to figure out that the man is his doctor.

“Nice to see you awake, John. I’m Dr. Jason Ripley, feel free to call me Jason.” Jason gives him a blindingly white smile, and John already dislikes him. 

Next to him, Sherlock snickers. 

_Definitely_ angry, then. 

“Nice to see you awake, Doctor Watson.” 

John forces a smile. 

“First things first,” he says, “you’re in the hospital because of ballistic trauma to the muscles surrounding your abdomen. We performed an invasive surgery to your stomach in order to retrieve the bullet and stop bleeding. I understand that you are a doctor, and even you must know how lucky you are to not have had the bullet pass through the abdominal cavity. We gave you a combination of Amiodarone for the cardiac arrest and Morphine for the pain. If you would like a full list of the drugs given to you, please let a nurse know and we will print you a sheet containing this information. During the surgery there were complications and we thought it best to put you in a medically induced coma for a period of 56 hours. During this time your body healed without any problems such as infection. However, as abdominal wounds are prone to infection, we will need to keep a close eye on you to make sure this doesn’t happen.

You are likely to experience hallucinations for the next four days. You will have periods of extreme drowsiness, and once we start physical therapy – periods of intense pain. The recovery time is determined to be four to six weeks. You were extremely lucky, Doctor Watson.” 

John blinks. For a coma patient just awakened, Jason doesn’t seem to have a clue what ‘going slow’ means. He won’t be looking forward to the hallucinations in the slightest, nor the pain. However, the recovery time is more than acceptable to John – he’ll be back on his feet in less than two months. 

Jason pitters around the room for about two more minutes, checking and recording John’s vitals and adding to his chart. As soon as he leaves, John turns to Sherlock.  
“What happ’n’d?”

Sherlock stares at John then in a blink of an eye has John’s hand in his grasp. His hand squeezes to the point that it hurts, but John’s so surprised that he doesn’t care. Sherlock’s never touched him like this before. “I don’t apologize for many things,” Sherlock bows his head and takes a breath, “But John, I truly am sorry for being so erroneously stupid. I should have been smarter, but Lundy had an ally that was unknown to me.” 

Sherlock slowly moves his eyes up, and in them are an expression that John has only ever seen once (Magnussen) “You were shot dead by his ally, which I make full on the promise that I _will_ hunt him down.” 

It takes a total of twelve seconds for John to realize that his lungs are burning from lack of air. Never, has he once seen anything like Sherlock Holmes begging for…for what, John doesn’t even know. There’s panic and suffering in Sherlock’s eyes and a weakness like John has never seen before. He remembers now, as his memories of the accident begin to come back, the look in Sherlock’s eyes as he brought John back to life ( _horror_ ). 

John sighs; how daft can Sherlock be? The man sees _everything_ (‘It’s my curse,’) yet he cannot see what’s right in front of him? John thinks he must be under the illusion that John won’t follow him anywhere, won’t forgive Sherlock for anything and everything he does. He makes up his mind right then and there, that when they get back home he is going to tell Sherlock exactly how much John cares for him. 

For now, he’ll contest to Sherlock’s patience. 

“I for’ive you. Please sleep? Stay?” It’s all John can manage at the moment, but it’s all that needs to be said. Sherlock immediately releases tension that he was holding.

“Sleep is boring, John,” says Sherlock simply. But John _knows_ him, and he can see the weariness in Sherlock’s eyes – the tired exhaustion built up from days and days of stress. John can see the fear, hidden as it may be, in Sherlock’s expression. The detective may have mastered how to fool other people, but he can’t fool John. 

Sherlock is on the verge of crashing. 

John rolls his eyes, “Sleep, _now_.” 

Sherlock tenses, as if preparing for a fight, but after a moment of indecision, agrees. He begins to move away, releasing John’s hand from his vicelike grip, but John won’t have it. God help him, he will hold onto Sherlock’s hand if it’s the last thing he does. He will have this one mercy, and Sherlock will put up with it. 

“Stay.” He says once more with emphasis. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen, but only minutely. “If you want me to sleep, I suggest you let me go.”

John just shakes his head, “No.” He gauges Sherlock’s reaction and grins when all he sees is confusion. John moves his hip slightly to the side, pleased to find that he does indeed have control of his own body once again. He takes this new found freedom to move to the very left of the bed so that enough room is left for Sherlock to lie his head down on the mattress if he so pleases. 

He pats the empty space with his freehand and says, “No exc’se.”

Sherlock simply sighs, “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem featured in this chapter is by CONRAD AIKEN - Music I Heard With You


	4. Death in Silence is the Only Freedom

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?  
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.  
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,  
And went with half my life about my ways.

\- - - - 

Sherlock puts aside his emotions for the next couple days and instead preoccupies himself with watching John. It’s been four days and thirteen hours since John opened his eyes, and four days and twelve hours since John forgave him.

Sherlock has slept in small, thirty-minute bouts since John forced him to get some rest. He’s exhausted in every sense of the word, but still, Sherlock refuses to sleep. He doesn’t trust himself not to have a nightmare, he doesn’t trust himself in this hospital – the doctors are too much for him, he doesn’t trust anything except for John. 

After his . . . episode (Attack, Sherlock. Get it right) John has been impossibly worried. He’s kept his distance with the questions, but Sherlock knows that John is soon to reach his breaking point. Sherlock offered to tell him what happened to him, but the extent of the torture that he went through will certainly change John’s opinion of him. 

Sherlock doesn’t want John to treat him any differently. Perhaps he should lie. 

John is already stressed about even being in a hospital, the constant chatter of machines flickering and beeping only serves to remind him of his time in Afghanistan.

Sherlock knows John feels weak, useless, _boring_ just sitting in his bed. It doesn’t help that this is the very building that Sherlock died on. 

Their only saving grace is that John is to be released in a day and a half, a process expedited by Mycroft. Sherlock supposes that his brother isn’t always that bad. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, thankful that John is asleep. If John knew what he was thinking, then Sherlock would never hear the end of it. 

Sherlock is startled by a cough, “Mind?” 

It’s Dr. Ripley, of course. Sherlock just nods, and the doctor enters. Sherlock stares at him while he makes his rounds and inspects John’s vitals. 

He is still wary of anything wearing a white coat. 

_Mid-fifties. No pets, unmarried. Commitment issues. Control issues. Lonely. On brink of depression. Masochist. Frequent sexual endeavors – meaningless._

But there’s something else. 

The doctor suddenly realizes Sherlock’s staring, and turns to meet his eyes, “Problem?” he asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, “Maybe.” 

Ripley raises an eyebrow, “Care to explain?”

Sherlock huffs, “No. but you might.”

The doctor sighs, “Might explain? I know who you are, Mr Holmes. You’re the detective here. Please tell me what you’d like to know.” 

Sherlock fidgets anxiously. He is uncomfortable at the way Ripley says his name. His voice sounds familiar, but Sherlock is sure he’s never seen the man before. It’s disconcerting. “Have we met before?” blurts Sherlock. 

Ripley scoffs, “No, Mr. Holmes. I assure you we haven’t.” 

Sherlock nods, accepting his answer. 

Of course, he doesn’t trust the doctor. Sherlock will keep a close eye on him. 

Ripley leaves quickly after their short conversation, and Sherlock turns his attention back onto John. John has shown some clear uneasiness whenever Dr. Ripley has come into the room, and when Sherlock confronted him, John had just replied, ‘Something off about him.’

Perhaps now, Sherlock understands why people have the uncanny ability to judge those without conclusive data. There is no reason for Sherlock to not like Ripley, yet it doesn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. 

Sherlock sighs, it’s the first real conversation he’s has had with another person other than John since he came back to the hospital. Even with John, Sherlock has avoided talking more than necessary. Sherlock knows John dislikes this – there’s a definite change in mood whenever Sherlock initiates in conversations. John’s _happier_ when he talks. 

Sherlock thinks this is odd, but he never comments. 

He wants to muster up the power to speak to John more, but he simply _can’t_. A dead weight has made itself a permanent settler in Sherlock’s chest since his attack. And over the days it’s just gotten worse and worse – yesterday, Sherlock was able to talk to John clearly, without any pain at all. 

Today, he can’t. 

It’s so frustrating. Before Moriarty happened, he was able to do anything. 

Now, the Spider has taken that from him. Sherlock is unable to access his Palace; he’s unable to set foot in a hospital without panic overcoming his every sense; he’s unable to sleep in fear of the dreams, and now he’s unable to _talk_. 

He knows he can, but his mouth refuses to utter more than a few words without the weight in his chest getting heavy. 

John doesn’t realize this, and in Sherlock’s silence, he speaks. He’s told Sherlock of his time in the coma, and the visits of various friends. John mentioned Greg with a fond annoyance, and that made Sherlock smile. He wasn’t there for Greg’s visit, and John tells him how he talked of Mycroft. 

*

‘ _Mycroft_?’ says Sherlock, astounded. Lestrade speaking of his brother?

‘That’s what I thought!’ replied John with a smile. 

‘Perhaps they’re engaging in a secret love affair.’ 

John gagged. 

*

And then, earlier today, John proceeded to tell Sherlock of Mycroft’s visit. Sherlock remembers it with a faint tinge of disgust coloring the memory.  
John told him that Mycroft came into his room, wished John good health, and left. 

John was lying. 

Sherlock didn’t point this out. He let it slide, if John didn’t want to tell him what really happened, then so be it. Sherlock can find out from Mycroft. 

Sherlock shivers – he’s cold. He wants so badly to lie down and sleep, but he _can’t_. 

_”Stay awake, pig!” A swift kick to his stomach sets him groaning, but it’s nothing. He’s had worse._

_Sherlock cracks open his bleary eyes. Damn, he’d fallen asleep again. They haven’t let him sleep a wink for 5 days – he’s beginning to break down. They’ve been starving him for almost a week now, and only given him two cups of water a day. At this rate, he’s going to die within days. He has to think of a plan, but he’s so tired, and so hungry._

_He has to get out, but how?_

_These are Moriarty’s men, but they’re certainly not the sharpest knives in the drawer. He has to think of a way to outsmart them, using the least amount of energy he can._

_Perhaps . . ._

_Yes, it’s his only choice. He has to act now, before he’s delirious._

_He coughs, “Sir? I – There’s something wrong. I can’t – ” Sherlock lets out a moan and rolls his eyes into the back of his head. He seizes his body, thrashing his chest up and down as if stroking. He bites his tongue for good measure and lets the blood dribble out of his mouth._

_“Dammit all to hell!” His captor falls for the bait, and rushes forwards, bending down to help Sherlock._

_That’s when he strikes. He slams his palms on the man’s ears, boxing them out. Sherlock upper hands the man’s larynx before he can shout for the other guards, and quickly reaches for the gun in his captor’s holster. He pistol-whips him, effectively rendering him unconscious._

_Sherlock gasps as a wave of vertigo cause his world to spin. He only has moments to act before –_

“Sherlock?” John’s groggy voice startles Sherlock out of his memory. He hadn’t noticed John waking up. 

He swallows, “Y-yes?” 

Sherlock hadn’t even noticed himself slipping into the memory. He must be more vigilant, he _must_ find a way to delete them. He can’t succumb to panic again. 

John opens his eyes, and Sherlock tries to slow his breathing. He stares at John, thankful for the darkness that hides his wild expression. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John props himself on his shoulder and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’s worried. 

“Fine.” 

Suddenly Sherlock is aware that he’s gripping John’s hand (when had that happened?). It must have been what woke John up. Sherlock knows John doesn’t mind physical contact, in fact, John has had a certain proclivity towards touching Sherlock that he hadn’t had before. However, Sherlock was gripping his skin so tight that pain was inevitable. 

He immediately lets go, “I’m sorry.”

John smiles, “You say that so often now. I swear I’m going crazy.” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

John sighs, “I know – I know you aren’t okay, Sherlock.” John swallows nervously (curious), “I know that I don’t know a thing that you went through while you were gone. You aren’t the same person. But you mustn’t think that I think less of you. You can tell me _anything_ , Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere, and you’re safe now.

Sherlock tries to say something, anything. 

But he can’t. 

Sherlock feels a familiar tug in his gut, and bile rises in this throat. He swallows it down and twists his hands into John’s covers, willing himself to _focus_.

John notices his discomfort, “You’re safe, Sherlock. I’m here for you.” He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand, rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock’s skin with his thumb. 

“I – I’m sorry,” Sherlock gasps, sucking in air through his teeth. He’s so _weak_. 

“That’s okay. I’m here.”

Sherlock nods, gripping John’s hand tighter. He wonders if other friends are as dependent on each other as they are to each other. John is almost devoted to Sherlock, and Sherlock, in turn, is a mess without John. 

“Do you want to sleep?” 

Sherlock nods wearily. He wants to sleep, yes. But he can’t. 

Eventually, his body will fall unconscious with sleep with or without his consent. 

At this point, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. He is out of his element in the worst way possible – sentiment overrides his senses, clouding out his sharp reasoning with mountains of emotions that Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with, “John I - .” 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it.” John squirms to the very edge of the bed as he once did before, but this time, his body is an invitation. “It’s a good thing I’m so much smaller than you, or else I don’t think you would fit.”

Sherlock breathes, “You want me to sleep with you?”

In the low light, Sherlock sees John redden (red, blush, fuchsia, rouge, _beautiful_ ). “Not in that way, you prat. Just come lie down with me. I’m sure you’ve done worse, just come and sleep.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment. The idea is not abhorrent in the slightest, in fact – intensely comforting. Once John uttered the words it’s as if Sherlock craves his warmth, craves the steady beat of John’s heart near his ear. How could he have said no? 

Maybe this way he’ll finally be able to sleep.

He shifts the blanket a bit and sits down, back to John. He slowly slides down into the sheets and adjusts a pillow behind his back, it's more comfortable than Sherlock would have expected, but it’s a tight fit.

John giggles, and Sherlock glances at him, “You’re absolutely ridiculous.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Come here!” John tosses an arm over Sherlock’s chest, and wraps Sherlock to face his eyes.

Sherlock blinks. 

“I hope this is alright, but this bed simply too small! I’ll be glad to get back home.”

This is better, so much better. This way, Sherlock can feel John’s heat, and feel his breath, can see his eyes. But he simply replies, “This is good.” 

“Alright, then.” John smiles, not bothering to look away. 

They’ve been staring for too long, but Sherlock doesn’t care (how blue have John’s eyes been?) He wants to burn this moment into his soul (should he still have one). John’s face – so gorgeous, his effervescent eyes – riddled with warmth (for him). Sherlock breathes in deeply, inhaling John’s scent, so sweet. He doesn’t smell particularly wonderful at the moment, but it’s John. So perfect. 

This is better, so much better. 

Sherlock realizes for the first time that they are completely alone. John is right, _he’s safe_. 

“John,” he whispers.

The man in question grins, “Yeah?” 

_He will talk, damn it._

Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I don’t want you to die.” Sherlock winces, the weight is back in his chest – never gone, but suddenly more prevalent than ever. 

_He can do this_.

John’s eyes soften, “Sherlock . . . ”

“You are never allowed to die again.” He’s cloaked in the invisibility of darkness and it’s a small mercy that John can’t see his face, for it is ridden with more pains than Sherlock has experienced before.

Sherlock reaches under the covers and runs his hand up John’s chest (soft, magnificent – more) until he reaches the place where he knows John’s heart to be. He digs his fingers into John’s flesh (don’t hurt him), “You have to stay alive.”

Sentiment makes him sick. His heart feels heavy in his chest, though he knows that it is the same 300 grams it has always been. 

John’s fingers trail Sherlock’s wrist, pulling his hand slightly back, “You’re talking.” 

“You’re dying,” he pretends his voice didn’t crack.

“So are you, love. I’m okay, Sherlock. I’m not dying any faster than you are.” 

_Love_.

At first, Sherlock doesn’t understand how John is so confident. 

But then it hits all at once, how John is so calm, how unshaken he seems to be – some sick twisted sort of play had been made in Sherlock’s absence (your death, get it right), and John being shot was – in his way – winning the hand. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this revelation, so instead he stays silent, feeling the weight in his chest grow. He clings to John’s heat, clinging to whatever John will let him have (needy, needy – consume).

John speaks. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by that look in your eyes. You must understand that, well, Sherlock. I will follow you _anywhere_. It was only sensible that one day I would even follow you in death. In that same way, I came back to life, _for you_. I’m not going to leave you – ever.” 

The soliloquy catches a breath in Sherlock’s throat, and suddenly he can’t breathe. It isn’t as it was before when he was on the verge of insanity, this is something unfamiliar to him. An emotion unknown but safe as long as he’s with John. 

“Breathe, love,” admonishes John. 

_Love._

He’s called Sherlock that twice now. 

John’s hand peeks from the under the covers and clutches Sherlock’s chin. A wetness coats his fingers, and Sherlock becomes aware of tears falling. He takes in a breath that feels like he’s heaving from the bottom of an ocean. A sob wrenches itself from his throat and he pulls himself closer to John, burying his head in the crook of John’s shoulder. 

He shudders.

A shudder racks his body, “Forgive me.” He grits his teeth as he bites the words out, and tears flow freely from his eyes. They soak John’s gown, making the cloth salty and bitter. 

He digs his fingers into John’s arm and neck, a reminder that he’s okay - that John is safe now (too much pressure will result in injury, collect yourself. Don’t hurt him.) 

John’s arms envelop him in an impossible, comforting warmth, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’ve already forgiven you. Now go to sleep, I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“If you insist.” Sherlock mutters. The tears are still running, but Sherlock will stop them soon. 

He wants to stay in this moment forever. This, being wrapped in John’s arms, is so much better than anything Sherlock’s ever experienced. 

The weight lifts slightly. The tears stop. 

John chuckles softly, “People will definitely talk.” John closes his eyes. 

Sherlock sighs, “let them.” 

It’s a fragment of a conversation they once had long ago, but this time, John does not defend his heterosexuality. In fact, John doesn’t respond until Sherlock is long asleep, and instead of words, he responds with a soft, gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. 

They are just confessions of two men whispered in the dark for no one but themselves to hear – yet, the words change the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? I'd appreciate any comments :)
> 
> Poem featured in this chapter is by A.E HOUSMAN - The Gladdest Thing


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